We dine at seven-thirty. “Then let me be the judge of what is best,” she answered. He looked at it eagerly, but made no movement to take it. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. Something he saw there had a curious effect upon him. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. ’ She giggled suddenly.
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